Falling down (into eternal darkness)
by Novacaine soul
Summary: AU. /Her mother always told her pride would be her downfall, and mother was never wrong. Or was she? Going through the days, running away from the nights, Clove is just unable to care anymore. All hope was lost, and she just watches the world live from her spot next to the window while she waits for the end of it all.


**This was going to be a love story about Clove and Cato, but apparently I'm unable to give them a happy ending. May whoever is up there forgive me for that, because they are just wonderful characters.**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own The Hunger Games or its characters. Sadly.**

**WARNING: Dark themes. Mentions of drugs, sex, attempted suicide and abusive relationships.**

**It's not proofe-read, so I'm sorry if there are any errors. Also, I'd appreciate it a lot if you told me about the mistakes of this story.**

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><p>Her mother always told her that pride would be her downfall.<p>

Such a sweet mother, she muses every time she takes a drag from her cigarette. The shadows that surround her try to match the shadows inside her soul, but no avail. They aren't dark enough.

Her mother always told her that her pride would be her downfall. And a bitter smile appears on her lips whenever she remembers those words. Because it was the only time her mother wasn't right.

She inhales deeply, letting the smoke burn her throat and set her lungs on fire. Ah, yes. Slowly killing what remains of who she used to be is her favourite hobby. Her head is resting against the wall behind her, and the pleasure smoking makes her feel is the reason why she closes her eyes shut.

Her bleeding wrists are numb. Pain. Pain is the only way she can deal with anything these days.

Dark red blood runs down her arms —her right hand still in the air, surrounded by the smoke of the cigarette, the same way the fog hugs her tiny body when she comes home every night— and drops of something so dark (her blood? Her soul?) that could be mistaken as black are splattered all over her legs.

Her image is just a complicated drawing that speaks volumes. She was once described as a study in black with blurred lines and sharp edges. Darkness and hatred. She's nothing but a messy combination of all the drugs she has tried.

Her vices have taken over her.

She doesn't look at her reflection in the mirror anymore. The last time she did, she saw a ghost of the past, a version of herself that didn't fuck up so badly.

She punched the mirror.

And even with blood stains on the broken surface and fractals of glass —the frozen image of who she was trapped in their tiny infinite— lying all around, she could still see a smile and a pair of happy eyes between the cracks and her own dark, soulless eyes, staring right back at her.

A puzzle of cracked pieces that didn't represent the same picture.

(That night, echoes of the laugh she used to have when she was a child haunted her nightmares. She wakes up crying.)

"You should be sleeping," a rough voice says. She sighs and turns her head in the direction of the sound, her right shoulder pressed against the cold ice window, the smoke drawing swirling patterns in an air that's not lethal enough for her.

"I'm fine," she snaps, her fingers closing tightly around the cigarette.

White knuckles that almost glow in the dark.

"And you're bleeding again. Honestly, Bonnie, how many times—"

"Do not call me that," she hisses, her voice as sharp as the blade that ran over her wrists minutes ago, and as cold as the world outside her window.

But the worst thing is her eyes. Empty and cold and full of despise. Her eyes are the best representation of hell.

(After all, mother always told her that hell was frozen, right? And mother is never wrong.)

It's the boy's —the man's— turn to sigh, his left fingers pinching his nose. "It's your fucking name. What do you expect me to say?"

His blue eyes shine as bright as the sun, even if that comparison couldn't be more unrealistic. Yes, he is big and blinding and burns everything that stands too close to him, but that's about it. He isn't warm or steady, and he sure as hell doesn't light up other people's lives. There was a time, though, when they referred to him as the 'son of the sun'. But that time is long gone.

No, this man is just a big ball of fire waiting for the right moment to explode.

"You already know what to call me, Cato."

Cato. One of her (way too) numerous poor decisions. The happy girl trapped behind the broken mirror still haunts her.

"Right. That stupid name again."

She doesn't like her name, the original one. Bonnie is too… fitting. It's almost as if it was made for her. She's just bony knees, bony elbows and bony everything.

She's sure her heart was removed to make room for all her bones, because there's no way two thousand and six bones can fit in such a tiny body.

Bonnie is too accurate. It shows everything she is in just two short syllables— bony. That's it. She's nothing more that bones, smoke and addictions.

Besides, Bonnie belongs to the past. Bonnie was a small girl that dreamed of the better times that would come. Bonnie could find happiness within the small, ordinary things.

Bonnie was still able to hope.

She's just a monster disguised as a human, a collection of blurry memories and a handful of awful mistakes.

She isn't Bonnie. She is the reason why Bonnie isn't here anymore.

Cato runs his hand through his hair. He's frustrated, she knows, and he probably knows that she knows. But she's just too tired for this.

"Go back to the filthy hole you came from, Cato. I won't be with you tonight."

There was a time when they loved each other genuinely, and midnight touches and morning kisses were their own personal heaven. Back when she was Bonnie and he was Cato, the sunny boy.

But then he joined a gang that she could know nothing about and started trying to destroy all those who were powerful or not as miserable as he was. And that's when she discovered how wonderful destroying herself was. That's when she went from Bonnie to what she is now, when she slowly tortured Bonnie every night until it was too much.

There was a time when they genuinely loved each other. Now they just fuck until everything hurts and the world spins so fast that she can't grasp it with her fingers only when Cato has some free enough and she's not high enough to be unable to move.

It's always fast and violent, because Cato can never stay for too long, but he still craves it. Her neck and hips are always bruised the next day.

They started making love just for the sake of it, because they were young and in love, and the world shines a little brighter when you are.

Nowadays it's nothing but something Cato uses for release and another way to waste her remaining time for her (another drugs that slowly takes her soul apart.) It's Cato gripping too tight, biting too hard and thrusting too fast.

It isn't even a horizontal dance. It's something raw and painful and it always comes with the post-sex bottles of vodka.

Cato doesn't like it. She doesn't care.

Cato can fuck her as hard and as much as he wants, but he won't take the drugs away. No one can. The last time he tried, she was found lying in the bathtub with her wrists slit open and her death just a breath away. He hasn't touched the topic since.

"Clove, don't be such a bitch."

She used to love the way her nickname rolled out of his tongue. But now it's always tainted with bitterness and anger, and something else that perhaps she doesn't want to figure out.

He used to tell her she was his world. These days she's just another whore that he fucks from time to time, she knows it, he doesn't even need to say it. She always knows.

"I'm too stoned for this shit, Cato. And my arms are bleeding. Get out of here. You won't get to fuck me tonight."

The anger in his eyes makes him look murderous and it would probably scare anyone to death. But not Clove. She just brings the cigarette to her lips and takes another drag with a cynic smile. _Good luck trying to make me fear you_, her eyes seem to say.

Nothing scares her anymore. She has seen what goes on inside her mind. The mere idea of something that could possibly be scarier than that makes her laugh.

"Dammit, Clove. Why do you keep on being so difficult?"

"I'm not difficult. I just want you to leave me alone."

"Listen to me, bitch." He is in front of her in just one second, both of his hands on each side of her face, trapping her. "I have given everything to you. I took you out of the streets and I took you into my house. The least you could do is show some gratitude!"

His face is close, too close, and she doesn't miss the opportunity. She takes another drag while glaring at his deep blue eyes, and slowly breathes the smoke directly to his face.

Let him know she's not afraid.

Cato starts coughing and steps back, just like she wanted.

"Bitch," he spats, and his left fist connects with her cheek.

Honestly, this is so tiring. It stopped hurting after the first twenty times.

Her silver eyes tinkle dangerously as she looks up. Stupid Cato. Always trying to prove he is the strong one.

When she was a child, she used to microwave a glass of milk everyday hoping that, maybe that time, just that time, it would come out cold and not warm, like it always did.

Someone once said that insanity was doing the same thing over and over again, and still expect different results.

She might be clinically mad, then.

Slowly, she takes the blue pills that were next to her to her mouth. Cato frowns, still coughing, and she swallows them.

Oh, how she loves her amphetamines.

"Go away, Cato. I'm not in the mood."

He growls and kicks the door on his way out.

"You're making a mistake, Bonnie. You'll regret this."

She sighs —sick tired of the situation— and looks outside the window. The glass is cold and she's only wearing her underwear and an old t-shirt over it. She doesn't care.

Cato's steps racing down the stairs echo in her room. He's leaving for good this time. She knows.

(She always knows.)

Strangely enough —or maybe it's not so strange—, she finds herself not giving a fuck. Cato won't come back. So what? These things happen. People leave, people die, people go mad all the time. She knows that. She's gone through it.

The shadow of Bonnie's laughter still dance in the dark cell that is her mind. Perhaps Cato has left, but everything else remains. The nightmares will still chase her, with Cato or without him. The mirror will always reflect a cheeky smile behind the demonic eyes. Yeah, life sucks in every sense of the word.

The smoke of her almost finished cigarette clouds her vision momentarily.

Her mother was wrong. Pride wouldn't be her downfall. Life is.

She looks through the window. At least she has some amphetamines left.


End file.
